


The Temptation of the LT

by Alethia



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Canon Era, M/M, Marine Corps, Mind Games, Nate POV, Podfic Available, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-21
Updated: 2008-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-25 06:38:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1636886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alethia/pseuds/Alethia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Does someone need a little physical affection? Because, sir, you could have just said so."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Temptation of the LT

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based on the HBO miniseries and book by Evan Wright. It is a work of fiction; it never happened. The story takes place between April 3rd and April 7th, which covers parts of both "A Burning Dog" and "Stay Frosty." Spoilers for both of those episodes and the relevant passages from the books.
> 
> Written for [](http://sparky77.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://sparky77.livejournal.com/)**sparky77**.

 

 

Walt sat hunched over himself, his adopted posture ever since the checkpoint catastrophe the day before. The difference now was Brad hunched awkwardly next to him - awkward because of the complications in hunching when you had limbs that long, of course. Brad had a hand on the back of Walt's neck and as Nate watched, he pressed his thumb into the little strip of skin between Walt's hairline and the hood of his MOPP suit.

Something burned at the base of Nate's own skull.

He appreciated it when someone came to stand beside him; it gave him an excuse to look away. A quick glance, a nod in greeting, and his suspicion was confirmed. No surprise that Ray showed up. It was Brad. Of _course_ Ray would be nearby. 

Nate stayed quiet. Ray would fill up the silence; of that he was _always_ assured.

"Ahh, our lucky day. We get to bear witness to Sergeant Brad Colbert weaseling his way into getting some. Not that I say this with anything but respect and admiration, of course. Preying on the young and vulnerable is a hallowed tradition of recon Marines."

Ray hadn't bothered to keep his voice down, but he'd only succeeded in getting Gabe's attention with that one. Everyone else was too used to his speeches. 

"Wait, what?" Gabe asked. He picked himself up from his sprawl beside 2-1 Bravo's victor and ambled over so he could see.

Brad and Walt were protected from most prying eyes due to the simple measure of sitting outside their ring of Humvees. Unless you were at an angle to theirs - unless you wandered far enough out, as Nate had - you wouldn't know who was there.

Brad had his face turned toward Walt's. Walt's gaze stayed pinned to his hands, which were worrying a stick, but the cant of his head said he was listening to what Brad had to say. Hopefully it was more effective than Nate's paltry offer to find a better way to stop the cars.

Brad stroked his thumb along that little strip of skin again, sun shining down on him like he was a favored one amongst God's children.

Most days, Nate had no trouble believing that was true.

"What's Sergeant Colbert doin' to Walt?" Gabe asked, nothing but confusion in his voice.

"Mating dance, Gabe. Mating dance," Ray assured him.

"Huh?"

"Any second Brad's gonna use that hand to push Walt's head down to his cock," Ray said by way of explanation.

"Hey! He can't - that's not - Walt won't even talk to me," Gabe finished, like that was some kind of response.

Nate flicked his eyes over both of them. Apparently Ray was in a teasing mood - big shock there - but Gabe was genuinely concerned.

"Thank you, Ray, for that insightful look into your fantasy life," Nate said, dry.

"Fantasy, my ass. I'm wondering if I can get to Lilley's camera in time," Ray shot back. "Um, sir."

Gabe's mix of hurt confusion smoothed out to a grin as he got that Ray wasn't actually serious. "Sir, what's the Sergeant really doing?" he asked Nate directly. That was...persistent.

"I don't know what he's saying," Nate emphasized, "but I'd bet it doesn't really matter. He's drawing Walt out."

"Drawing him out?"

Nate nodded to the pair. "Brad's touching him."

"Yeah, baby. That's what I'm talkin' about." Ray made a rather colorful gesture.

Nate focused on Gabe; he wouldn't want to _encourage_ Ray. Not that Ray required much encouragement most days. "Humans need physical contact to survive - well, to be well-adjusted, anyway. You guys get it without even realizing: sparring, playing football, draping an arm around a shoulder when looking at a porn mag - "

Ray scoffed. "Not me; I don't need none of that pathetic, liberal yuppie psychobabble bullshit."

"Dude, you hump anything that moves," Gabe said obviously.

Ray looked offended. "I will have you know that my humpee selection process is very rigorous, with standards that'd make the recon Marine requirements _cry_. Not just anyone gets Ray-Ray love."

"Nor do they want it," Nate offered, back to watching Brad and Walt. Walt seemed minutely more receptive. He met Brad's eyes now and then. There was something terrible about seeing the platoon Nice Guy so broken, curled in on himself protectively.

What was worse: _Walt_ wasn't the focus of Nate's attention.

"Walt doesn't do that stuff," Gabe said, thoughtful, like he was mulling Nate's words. "He just laughs at our asses when everyone else is rollin' around on the ground."

"Which is why Brad's very deliberately touching him now."

Gabe considered that and then frowned at the pair. Nate filed that away to analyze later. A few thoughts were piling up there...he should really be systematic about sorting through them. He'd hate to be caught by surprise.

Ray snorted, winding himself up. "You do realize you're basing your theory on the idea that Marines are well-adjusted? Because _clearly_ we're not surrounded by a bunch of psycho jarhead mama-fuckers and baby-killers. I mean, only _well-adjusted_ people would choose to stew in their own filth all day while their dicksuck command plays a game of 'look at the shiny object!' with a third-world army - a strategy of such sophistication it makes _South Park_ 's 'It's headin' right for us!' look like Einstein himself rose from the grave to offer up a sensible ROE. Gosh, no _well-adjusted_ person would want to do anything unseemly like sleep in a bed or play Xbox all day. That's just crazy talk."

Gabe cracked a grin, but Nate just regarded Ray steadily. When he was sure Ray had gotten it out of his system - for the moment - he cocked his head and said simply, "Can't fight instinct, Ray."

Ray got that sulky, put-upon look he wore when his audience wasn't behaving to his liking. "Well, now I'm bored. I liked my explanation better."

"You liked it better when Brad was fucking with one of his team members?" Gabe asked.

"Fuck, yeah I did. At least that shit was interesting. Now it's all pansy-ass, 'let's go cry on each other's shoulders for we are special snowflakes' kumbaya bullshit. Weak, man. Weak."

Nate smiled slightly. "So sorry to ruin your entertainment, Ray."

"Nah, it's cool, LT. I'll just tell Brad about it later and his reaction'll be _so_ worth it."

***

"I'm 'drawing Walt out?'" Brad asked without preamble. The quotes were implied. The scorn was so vast it should have its own zip code.

Maybe they could invade that next.

Nate raised his head from where he'd been studying the route away from Al Kut. He half-smiled. That'd taken longer than he figured; Ray must have made a production out of it. 

"Weren't you?" Nate asked him right back.

"Respectfully, sir, you may be thinking too much about who I touch and why."

"Oh?"

"It's a little gay, sir."

"God forbid." 

Brad's eyes met his in a silent measuring look that Nate felt too keenly - at the base of his skull, straight down his spine, clenched tight in his stomach.

"How's Walt?" Nate asked abruptly. It was the important thing, after all. The thing he _should_ be focusing on.

Brad snapped out of it. His expression changed only minutely, but it was the nuance that mattered with Brad. "He's fine, sir." The flat tone of his voice told Nate the statement was automatic, protective. 

Nate had thought they were beyond that now.

He pinned Brad with a look - they said so much through so simple a thing. And it'd always been that way, from the very beginning. An instinctive shorthand that had never failed them. 

Brad finally relented. "Got him talking, at least."

"Gabe seemed especially concerned that Walt wouldn't even talk to him."

"Last I saw, Gabe was practically sitting in Walt's lap. Now that was _really_ gay."

"Looks like your men are taking your example to heart."

"I imagine a certain LT's speech about the virtues of touch had something to do with that, sir."

Nate smiled, innocent. "Could be."

Brad shuffled closer, leaned up against the Humvee, suddenly right _there_. "Was that a cry for attention, sir?"

Nate...didn't follow.

"I'm sorry?"

"Does someone need a little physical affection? Because, sir, you could have just said so." Brad very deliberately pressed his hand against Nate's wrist. That simple contact, after so long without, made his skin itch more surely than any shamal ever had.

He blinked at the sight of Brad touching him. His gut clenched. Brad didn't move his hand. 

When Nate looked up again, something in Brad's eyes had shifted. "You should see your face right now, sir."

"Really."

"You look like you're waiting for me to kiss you."

"Well, you are holding my hand." At the reminder, Brad's fingers slid away. Nate was surprised to find he wanted that touch back.

And wasn't that just fucked? On so _many_ levels.

"No kissing on the first date, LT. What do they teach you fancy Ivy boys, anyway?" Brad smirked, shook his head at him - kids these days, for _shame_ \- and took his leave.

Nate turned toward the Humvee, breathed out, then surreptitiously adjusted himself. Jesus.

***

And that started Brad on his little mindfuck project. Because after that discussion, every time he talked to Nate or wandered near Nate or did anything remotely concerning Nate...he'd touch him. Deliberately. So that Nate would feel it.

And _feel it_ , he did. All over, everywhere, so much he wanted to crawl out of his skin. Or maybe let Brad crawl into his, he didn't know. Something.

Not that he could complain about anything specific, of course. It was all friendly pats on the arm, shoulder, back - nothing Nate hadn't done to Brad a dozen times over.

But Brad didn't casually touch people. Ever. So each time he laid his hands on Nate, it was steeped in meaning.

Nate had no fucking clue what it meant, though.

Thankfully their relentless push toward Baghdad necessitated long hours on the road, so he got to sit in the command vehicle and not get felt up by Brad. Nate found himself both relieved and disappointed by that fact. He didn't know which one to hate more. 

It was a respite, sure, but it was also a lot of time to think. About Brad. Touching him.

Thinking went nowhere good.

But it wasn't a complete respite. They still had to stop and play escort duty. Or refuel the Humvees. Or meet for mission briefings.

Nate and his team leaders stood around the hood of Brad's vehicle. Nate showed them the route, tracing over it with his pen and trying to ignore everything external and focus on getting out the needed information. 

Brad didn't make it easy. He stood with an arm resting casually on Nate's shoulder, ostensibly leaning in to study the map. He probably had the fucking thing memorized. He was their map-reading prodigy, after all.

The touch spoke of the camaraderie shared amongst the men, but never with him. And Brad was never one to engage in such camaraderie, either. Nate was surprised how much that got to him, on several levels.

Mike's eyes had darted to Brad's arm at least three times.

"Get all your men squared away," Nate finished. "We've got a long way to go and Godfather doesn't want unnecessary stops. Ten minutes and we're oscar mike."

Nate looked at them expectantly; no one moved.

"Waiting for embossed invitations, gentlemen? You heard the man," Brad said. The group instantly broke, without the muttered resistance so typical recently. A day of speeding along highways. Hard to complain about that.

Brad stayed right where he was, propped against Nate like it was no big thing.

Nate turned his head and eyed the arm still on his shoulder. He raised his eyes to Brad, who watched him with equal interest. "Are you having fun, Brad?"

"Very much, sir. Better than Disneyland."

Nate sent him a quelling look and stepped away. He grabbed the map board from the hood and headed back toward his vehicle. Mike caught up and easily fell in step beside him.

"Everything okay?" Mike asked. That was...unusually neutral for him.

"Any reason it wouldn't be?"

"Colbert's gettin' kinda touchy-feely," Mike replied, reverting back to his to-the-point style.

Nate shrugged. "You know Brad." Hopefully Mike would let it rest.

"I do know Brad." A vain hope, it seemed.

They were almost to their truck. Nate raised his eyebrows at Mike. "And?"

"And he keeps himself apart. But not today. Any particular reason for that?"

"You'd have to ask him."

"I'm askin' you."

Nate stopped walking. He turned to face Mike head-on, pitching his voice low: "Brad's playing around. Frankly, I'm relieved to know he can. And if it keeps him from a death-spiral of disillusionment about losing his mission and the way the war's being prosecuted, he can get as touchy-feely with me as he likes."

Mike spit, then shook his head. "All right, fine. But I'm keepin' that last part between you and me, for my own sanity's sake." With that he walked off

His stomach both clenched and dropped. Mike saw too much some days. 

Nate trailed behind him the rest of the short walk back to their vehicle.

***

Another deep Iraqi night, camped out on the edge of the Tigris River at the bridge to An Numaniyah. Tomorrow they'd push the final hundred miles to the Diyala River, the southeastern outskirts of Baghdad. Even here Marines pooled, the largest group they'd been a part of since the start of the war, all of them heading toward the final battle. With this many Marines in such a concentrated area, it was relatively secure. 

Nate _should_ be able to sleep.

Boots crunched through the dirt near Nate's head. He turned to look, figuring anything was more interesting than staring at the oil pan of the Humvee a few inches above his nose.

Brad's voice floated down to him. "Evening, Gunny."

"Brad," Mike greeted. "The LT's sleepin.'"

"Did I ask?"

Nate smiled - he could practically see Mike's rolled eyes, Brad's sly half-smile. Mike's voice was dry when he spoke: "Yeah, that'll be the day - you comin' to shoot the shit with me instead of our boy-king."

"Don't underestimate your own charms, Mike."

"Now you sound like my wife and that's just disturbing. Look to the deck, Sergeant."

Brad was pretty quick on the uptake and yet Nate was still surprised to come face-to-face - horizontally-speaking - with him so soon. Did he lose time there?

Shit, he needed more than three hours of sleep in three days to handle Brad with any kind of alacrity.

"Sleeping with your eyes open. A useful skill, sir," Brad observed in his usual dry way. His eyes looked worried, though.

"One I should probably set about acquiring."

Brief flash of a half-smile and then Brad squirmed his way under the truck, weapon kept within easy reach just in case. He flicked on a red-lens flashlight, then studied Nate's face in the low light.

"Ranger grave not to your liking, sir?"

"I like it fine. Just figure I'm less likely to get run over by a tank under here."

"If you do get run over, at least you'd take Mike with you." Brad's special brand of silver lining, that.

Nate half-expected Mike to chime in with some biting comment, ask them if they needed nail polish for their slumber party, something. A silent beat made Nate think maybe he couldn't hear them.

Brad's fingers on his wrist were _electric_ , made him suck in a breath, meet Brad's eyes. As a tactic to get his attention, it was a good one.

"Sir?" Brad asked. He watched Nate closely, some kind of offer in his eyes. And he was still doing the touching thing. This suddenly felt too intimate, here on the ground under this Humvee, Brad's fingers subtly moving on his wrist. They were surrounded by thousands of Marines, all heading toward the final push through Baghdad, and it somehow felt like it was just the two of them.

It felt like he could make a mistake.

"Copping a feel, Sergeant?" Nate asked, trying for light.

Brad's eyes flickered. He pulled his hand back.

"I should let you sleep."

"If only my brain shared the sentiment."

Brad reached over and squeezed his wrist again, this touch completely different - strong, sharp, brief. 

Nate was getting used to missing his touch. That somehow made it worse.

Brad squirmed out from under the victor, then flicked off the light. Nate blinked. The surrounding darkness seemed even thicker than before. Brad's steps faded from hearing long before his eyes readjusted.

***

On one level it was a distraction - from the war, from the end of their mission, from the humanitarian crisis this was quickly becoming. It kept Nate's mind occupied through "Spring Break '03," Sergeant Griego being his usual charming self, the fading expectation that they'd play any role in Baghdad and the men's resultant discontent.

On another level, it was driving him out of his mind. It focused too much of his attention on the kind of pervasive _want_ that officers - good, responsible, straight officers - shouldn't feel in connection with their closest and most trusted NCOs. Not that there was a connection. Deciding there was a connection required analysis...or any kind of thought, really. 

Nate preferred to eschew thought when it came to one Brad Colbert. Brad decided to get half-naked and run around pretending to be an airplane? Blank-out. Nate had absolutely no opinion on this whatsoever.

It was working well so far. Except for the incident where Nate blanked on answering the Captain's question, so the Captain asked - over Company-wide comms, no less - if Nate had dropped the hook. 

So basically it was working not at all, but a faulty plan was better than no plan. This was how Nate contented himself. Or tried to.

Nate checked in with each Humvee as he walked the lines, a nightly habit. More a formality here with the entirety of the First Marine Division camped out - 18,000 Marines gearing up to attack one of the great cities of the Middle East - but he wanted to make sure everyone was squared away. He'd saved Brad's team for last. 

"Hey, LT," Gabe greeted as Nate approached 2-1 Alpha's victor, no Brad in sight. "Did Brad find you?"

"Brad? No. Did he need me?" 

Walt sat under the cammie net, cleaning his SAW. He didn't say anything, still had that quietude about him even though he'd snapped out of his stupor that morning at the sight of Ray covered in ravioli. He nudged Gabe's leg, though, and the two of them traded a look.

Gabe seemed sheepish. "We thought - well, sir, we thought you needed him."

Walt perked up. "Yeah, what with how Brad's gettin' grabby with you and all," he said, apparently completing Gabe's thought.

The thought was nowhere near complete. Nate was _lost_. "Grabby?" he asked.

"Yeah, you know. Touchin' you like he did with Walt."

"Hey! He's touching the LT _way_ more than he ever did to me," Walt protested.

"Yeah, yeah. You okay, sir? Some of the guys have noticed how Brad's been, uhh, more hands-on with you, so we thought something might be wrong. It's not Encino Man, is it?" Gabe persisted.

Nate blinked. "No, nothing's wrong." 

They both answered that with slightly concerned looks and Jesus, he was in charge here, right?

"If you say so, sir," Gabe said, clearly not believing it but letting it go. Because Brad would _fix things_. Possibly with his magical powers of touch.

Nate nodded to them stiffly. "Let him know I stopped by."

"Will do. Thought he was headin' over to 2-1 Bravo. If you're gonna go lookin,'" Gabe called as Nate walked away. 

"Don't be a nag, man; he'll get pissed at Brad," Walt hissed, probably thinking Nate couldn't hear. 

"Pissed at Brad? The LT? That even possible?"

Oh, if he only knew.

***

Espera was going strong when Nate approached 2-1 Bravo's Humvee. Twenty minutes since Nate had last talked to him and he was _still_ schooling Lilley.

"Nah, dog. The chill white people aren't the ones who go around professing their love for the poor, misbegotten fuckers unlucky enough to have been born of a different race. The chill white people are the ones who spew hate universally. Doc? Hates everybody, no matter what color you are. To him, we are _all_ incompetent motherfuckers. You _start out_ that way. That's what I call an even fucking playing field: everybody equal under the law of universal contempt. _That's_ a chill white boy."

"Yo, I don't hate everybody," Lilley said.

Espera grinned. "Exactly. But now you know where you need to improve."

Nate cut in on the lesson. "Hey, Tony, you seen Brad?"

He nodded a companionable greeting at Nate. "Hey, LT. The Iceman steamrolled through my domain about ten minutes ago. Headed straight for the grove, a hunter on the prowl."

"Huntin' hajis," Lilley offered.

"That's right. Only thing is, can't really hunt them hajis in a secure area like we got ourselves here. I suspect you'll find the Iceman in search of his inner child, seeking oneness with Mother Nature and peace on God's green earth."

"Or takin' a dump," Lilley said. Espera grinned and conceded the point with a gracious nod of his head.

"The grove? At night? Alone?" Nate asked, his tone dubious.

"Want us to go rustle him up, sir?"

"No, I think I'll do that myself."

"Roger that, sir. But no goin' on about no trauma when you find Brad buck naked, climbing a palm to harvest him some dates."

Nate refused to dwell on that image. "Northern hemisphere dates are harvested in September, Tony."

Espera just looked at him for a beat. "You're a whole other level of freaky, you know that, sir? I don't even know what to say to you right now."

"First time for everything." Nate flashed a quick smile and headed off toward the grove. 

Espera chuckled, then continued on with his lesson: "See, Brad's another one. I can count on one hand the number of people that motherfucker likes. Shit, dog. I don't think he likes his own mother."

"But I thought you and Brad were tight."

Espera scoffed. "You know I'm just his friend to piss him off."

"Well, he and the LT are cool," Lilley tried, their voices fading the further away Nate walked.

"And you see why: the LT's his kinda freaky. LT's one of the few people Brad does like, 'cause God knows he shits on everybody else. And that's why Brad's a chill white boy: in his eyes, we're all such filthy fuck-ups we don't even deserve a second thought." 

The whisper of the grove enveloped him and Nate heard no more.

***

Nate would admit it slightly unhinged to go traipsing through a palm grove after dark, especially when the subject of his search might no longer be out here.

On the other hand...that was what sitting around in a relatively secure encampment made you: antsy and brave enough to be foolhardy.

Nate weaved through the palms, thankful for the even ground and relatively harmless underbrush. His boots softly crunched through wispy grass that hit at about knee height. He could imagine the incredibly beautiful scene it'd make in sunlight - palms providing a measure of protection from the sun, meadows filled with white flowers in and around the great trees, like something out of a painting, too picturesque to be real. Too peaceful to find at war.

At night it was all shades of grey, but at least there was a little light so he could see. Somewhat. Nate knew it silly to be reassured by that, recognized the false sense of security - danger was ever-present in theater, and attacks came when you least expected them - but surrounded by the relative quiet, wind whispering through the branches above and grass below...he was. He felt no threat here.

Given their luck, that probably meant he was about to get fucked...but nothing for it now. He wasn't about to turn back.

"A bull in a China shop's got nothing on you, sir," Brad's voice floated out of the darkness, startling Nate half to hell.

"Jesus Christ, Brad, what the fuck?" Nate asked, heart rate through the roof, ruffled and annoyed about it. He took an even breath and forcibly relaxed his instinctive grip on his weapon. 

Then he turned and stalked a few paces toward where he thought he'd heard him. No Brad in sight.

At least, not until he melted out of a tree trunk, a seamless transition from flora to, well, _Brad_. The earlier spike of adrenaline still had Nate's heart pounding so he couldn't fully appreciate the image or the skill inherent in the display.

"Sir?" Brad asked, walking closer.

Nate took a deep breath. "I've been looking for you for twenty minutes. What are you doing out here?" That question was much less annoyed than it had been in his head.

"Marveling," Brad said, short and inexplicable. As usual. He watched Nate steadily as he stepped even closer, maybe trying to gauge his mood? 

Good luck with that.

"Marveling?" Nate asked.

Brad gestured to the muted magnificence around them. His eyes never left Nate's. "It's like we found the fucking Garden of Eden," he said, his voice somehow full of both wonder and discontent.

Nate stared for a moment...and then he laughed. 

Brad's response so eerily mirrored Espera's prediction - Brad becoming one with Mother Nature - that the hilarity just bubbled up. Nate barely bothered to try and control it. He laughed so hard he leaned back against a palm trunk, setting his weapon down in the process. It wasn't even that funny.

Brad's silence was eloquently unimpressed.

After a length Nate's mirth subsided. He stayed propped against the palm, the tree bark rough and pitted under his hand. "I stopped by your Humvee. You weren't there, but Gabe and Walt were. Seemed to think I needed your help." Nate realized his voice sounded indulgent, the anger absent, perhaps burned out through the power of laughter. Or the rush of adrenaline. Or something.

He knew he should be concerned about the seesaw of his emotions; that detached realization wasn't enough to inspire the feeling, though.

Brad moved in the last couple steps. He was frowning. "I'll speak to them, sir."

Nate straightened and sucked in a breath. "It's not about what you say; it's about what you _do_."

"Sir?"

"With the touching. They see that and think something's wrong with me."

Brad's face relaxed. "Nothing's wrong with you, sir; I'm just drawing you out." He half-smiled, like he was amused.

Nate's irritation flared again. Ahh, there it was. Laughter was not a panacea, after all.

Nate pushed off the tree and moved in close. Proximitygot Brad's attention like nothing else, always had. And Nate sure as hell got the attention he wanted, though Brad made no move to step back. "Still having fun, Brad?" Nate asked evenly.

Brad blinked at him and remained silent.

"Because I'm not. You wanna play games with the guys, play games. You out to prove you're the Alpha Male with them, go ahead. But don't play with me."

"Sir, I can assure you that I'm not playing any kind of game with you." Brad spoke crisply, his polite voice, used as a 'fuck you' in its own right. Nate hadn't often heard it directed at him. It fueled the low thrum of his aggravation.

Nate raised an eyebrow. "Then I guess you just want to touch me. In which case, Sergeant, your courtship technique could use some work."

Brad blinked at him again, like Nate was some exotic species whose language he could not even begin to comprehend.

Oh, fuck it.

Nate cut through the language barrier by leaning in and pressing his mouth to Brad's. As kisses went, it was chaste, innocent even - a brief press of lips, dry as the dust that covered everything here. Everything but this grove, it seemed. The kiss was slightly awkward because Brad still held his weapon, but Nate made it work. He was used to improvising. 

He pulled back - ante effectively upped - and waited for Brad to flip out, laugh it off, insult his parentage, all of the above. Waited for Brad to _get_ why his amusements were a bad idea.

Brad did none of those things. He did nothing at all, in fact, didn't even move. Nate could see his mind at work in his eyes - facts realigning, shifting, getting slotted into new configurations.

Dead silence spread between them, the sounds of the grove filtering in, seeming loud. A niggling worry took root in Nate's stomach, digging in and growing with each of Brad's quiet, measured breaths. Brad didn't need this long to think up an insult. 

And then Brad blinked and visibly came back to himself. His eyes narrowed.

He shoved Nate back with one hand, _hard_ , pressed him into the tree with a force he hadn't expected. Shock replaced worry as quick as that, shock that Brad would actually want to kick his ass - Brad, who favored geeking out over technology and military history to engaging the guys in their mock combat. It was incongruous; the idea did not compute.

Brad's hand went from pressing Nate back to curling in Nate's uniform and Nate had to shift gears _again_ , jumping from the violence of combat to the violence of something else. Brad crushed their mouths together and that hazy 'something else' became quite clear.

This kiss was nowhere near innocent. It was nowhere near chaste. And brevity did not have anything to do with it.

Brad kissed him thoroughly, harshly, tongue shoved into his mouth without entreaty, not that Nate would have denied him. Nate could feel the rough bark of the tree at the back of his head, Brad's heavy weight pressing into him, the white-hot brand of Brad's fingers skillfully finding ways under his flak vest. He catalogued all of it - or tried to, what with Brad's tongue doing absolutely _obscene_ things to his mouth.

Nate made a soft sound, took a breath, and simply tried to keep up. Irritation, anger, shock...they'd all fled. His immediate concern shrank to the hand - no _hands_ \- on him and body pressing against him.

Brad shifted their alignment, they clicked into place against each other, and Nate broke the kiss on a surprised gasp, the friction against his cock almost unbearable. 

He panted into the air between them. Brad rocked their hips together and they both groaned.

"Fuck, Brad." This was bad. Kissing was supposed to be a _point_ , not an invitation. And now Nate couldn't force his hands to let go of Brad, despite knowing how very bad this was. In an _oh, fuck yes_ kind of way.

"You jumped me," Brad said, like he was a little awed at the idea. Even as he was grinding his cock against Nate's hip.

"What?"

Brad kissed him again, all tongue and heat, thrusting against Nate again, oddly graceful. It sent a fresh volley of heat to every nerve in Nate's body, made his hands curl. Fuck, it hadn't been _that_ long since he'd had sex, so there must be something else making this so mind-bendingly good: heightened combat senses or Brad or being held down and ravished because when had anyone ever done _that_?

Brad started working on Nate's flak vest, fingers quick and efficient and _touching him_. Even given all the mindfuckery, _this_ was not the ending Nate had imagined.

It was supposed to have been a fucking game - a messed up game, sure - but not actual foreplay.

" _Christ_ , Brad," Nate hissed when Brad found skin, real skin-on-skin, not the safe skin of wrist or back of the neck.

Brad pushed Nate's shirt further up. "Not hearing a 'no' here," Brad muttered.

Yeah, if only. It'd be safer if he could shut this down now. For Brad, for his career, for getting out of this whole and intact.

All of which paled utterly when compared with the _want_ that had been curling in his gut for as long as he could remember, stoked by careful touching until it was almost unbearable. Not that he'd thought too much about it.

Brad tweaked one of his nipples, a sense of waiting about him. Nate's whole _body_ shook, but he forced out a semi-coherent response. "Not gonna hear one at all," he said as he panted.

Brad shoved his tongue in Nate's mouth again and that settled that.

Nate sucked on Brad's tongue and tried to help with his flak vest. He mostly just got in the way, clumsy and uncoordinated in the face of the Iceman's calculated assault.

Feeling _Brad's_ skin was another jolt, like a goal that hadn't become real until he actually felt it with his hands. 

Brad approved, deep in his throat. Even that made something in him buzz. 

Nate broke away from Brad's filthy, sinful, addictive mouth. "This is completely fucked up, you know that?"

Brad licked at his mouth, undeterred. "Uh-huh."

Nate got the impression he was being humored. 

"I'm pissed at you; I'm not. I'm content with the war; I'm not," he said, listing off the contradictions.

Brad determinedly shrugged out of his flak vest. "Is there a point to this?"

"Maybe I'm not making the best decisions. No, _assuredly_ , I'm not making the best decisions." Rubbing up against a subordinate in an Iraqi palm grove? Not the best decision.

Brad eyed him steadily, then nodded once. "Sir, due respect, shut the fuck up and drop your fucking pants."

Brad fused their mouths together without awaiting a response. Nate found his hands tugging at his clothes, no conscious thought involved; Brad made a pleased sound into the kiss. 

Nate somehow pushed off the damned MOPP suit's suspenders and Brad quickly worked around the rest. His hand on Nate's cock was yet another jolt, like his brain hadn't quite caught up with what they were doing, no matter how much evidence it was given. He was working on permanent lag time, though the feeling of Brad closing a fist around him was clear enough.

Something called for attention, at the back of his mind...

"Nate," he gasped out. 

"Yes, you are," Brad said. And huh, he could mock, even while distracted. Even while distracted with jerking off the subject of said mockery. Even as his _very talented hand_ \- 

Nate sucked in a breath and pulled the tattered remains of his brain together. "Cut the fucking 'sir' bullshit," he said bluntly.

Brad stopped all movement. Nate's cock vociferously protested. 

He looked Nate in the eye. "We equal now?"

 _Fuck_. 

"Dammit, Brad. If you feel pressured..."

"Christ on a cross, I can't even fucking believe it. Only people with severe authority kinks are this obsessed. Remind me to tie you up when we get back stateside." Brad pressed in close and bent to Nate's mouth.

Nate avoided the kiss, but shuddered when Brad nipped his jaw. "I'm serious, Brad. I don't want to - " 

Brad scoffed in Nate's ear, then pushed his very hard cock against Nate's hip. "This feel like a lack of consent to you, _Nate_?" He bit Nate's earlobe.

Nate rubbed against Brad without thought, a little bit desperate. Brad didn't respond to the goad. He remained too still, that aura of waiting about him again, like his patience had no end, he could hold out until he got what he wanted.

Nate suddenly missed Brad's earlier impatience because at least that didn't require him to verbalize while he had a warm, unmoving hand teasing his cock with the Promised Land.

"You make a good point," Nate conceded, kind of pathetically breathless.

"I thought so. _Now_ we all squared away?" He somewhat undermined the point of asking when he squeezed Nate's cock again.

Nate grunted...something.

"I'm taking that as an affirmative. Do let me know if we have any more issues to work through, therapists to patronize, forms to fill out in triplicate before we can come all over each other already."

The pleasure thrumming through Nate sharpened a tiny fraction more at the words. Because he _needed_ a whole additional layer of fucked-up to add to this goatfuck of a situation. Also, it'd be really, truly pathetic if Brad's condescension started to be a turn-on.

But, right, thought. He was capable of such a thing when paralyzed by lust.

"I have a question," Nate said, not desperate at all. He pulled himself together enough to look Brad in the eye. "You always this pissy when you're getting off?"

Brad smiled - it had teeth to it - and tightened his hand on Nate's cock. "I'm not getting off yet, am I?"

Nate obligingly shoved his hand into Brad's briefs. "So you're just pissy when you're sexually frustrated. That sheds light on a few things." He extricated Brad's cock and started stroking, adjusting the angle and grip until Brad shivered and hissed out something vowel-laden and unintelligible.

Brad found Nate's mouth again and the teasing abruptly died off - he seemed quite serious about the kissing. Then it was just panting into each other's mouths and more kissing as they sloppily jerked each other off. 

Nate's whole body lit up under the assault. Brad was hot in his hands and solid against him. The tree bark felt rough at his back where his shirt had ridden up, but fuck if that didn't hit him harder. Not that it needed to, what with Brad's single-minded pursuit of getting him off making him want to drop to his knees and _beg_.

Brad teased the slit of his cock and Nate's brain promptly excused itself as a wash of heat swept through him. His hand stuttered on Brad's cock, he might very well be gripping too tight...absolutely none of which he cared about when Brad's other hand snuck behind his balls to press just _perfectly_ \- 

Nate bit Brad's lip and came all over his fist, pleasure shuddering through him everywhere he could still feel.

Brad made a low, pleased sound and licked at Nate's teeth. He kept moving his hand, stroking him through it, until Nate couldn't stand it any longer.

Sweaty and shaking, Nate wanted nothing more than to collapse back into a panting stupor, but Brad hadn't come yet and Nate was, if nothing else, a proper gentleman. He wasn't quite sure it applied in this situation, but it was the spirit that counted.

Also, he really wanted to see Brad come.

Nate tightened his fist around Brad's cock and stroked once, hard. Brad groaned and curled his fingers into Nate's hip as he bucked helplessly. Nate kept the grip, but speeded his strokes, liking the idea of seeing the Iceman's façade crack open. 

Nate stroked him with one hand and felt the muscles tensing in his back with the other, just watching, enthralled by everything flitting through Brad's eyes. 

Brad let him, fucked into his fist and let Nate see. It didn't take long for the rhythm of his hips to stutter. He only shut his eyes when he came, choking off a groan, something in his face that hurt Nate to watch.

Nate gentled his touch. 

Brad's eyes opened on a look Nate hadn't seen before...and then somehow they were kissing again - which...why? 

Brad broke away from his mouth and slumped against him, panting and sticky. Nate was ridiculously grateful for the tree at his back, the tree now holding them up. Except for the part about the scratches, but those were easily ignored in favor of cataloguing the feel of Brad breathing.

"Yeah, that was a terrible decision," Brad mumbled sometime later.

"Unconscionable," Nate agreed. 

"Good thing there isn't a bed nearby. It'd give you the opportunity to make other terrible decisions."

"Good thing."

After a couple long moments, Brad pulled back and let Nate stand. They cleaned up as best they could - which wasn't even close to sufficient, but it only had to last until they could reach baby wipes and some privacy - and pulled their MOPP suits back in place.

"I didn't jump you," Nate said, surprising himself. Especially that he'd feel the need to correct Brad, given what they'd just done.

There was something about that, though...

Brad hardly seemed fazed, calmly refastening his flak vest. "Of course not."

"I was fucking with your mind the way you fucked with mine." That sounded really defensive, even to his own ears.

"I don't recall kissing you at any point in the past few days."

"I returned the mindfuck, with interest," Nate stated.

"I wasn't fucking with you. Merely following your sound dictates regarding the importance of touch. It's not on me that you got all horny and couldn't control yourself."

"Brad."

Brad looked at Nate squarely, then his eyes dropped to his mouth. "Your lips are puffy."

"Someone has a strange fascination with my mouth."

Brad pressed a finger to Nate's lips, eyes fixed there.

"I was gauging your reaction," Brad drawled, almost mesmerized, finger still at Nate's mouth.

"In a way that protected yourself completely. That could be laughed off as a joke. Never lose face in front of the pack?" Nate guessed.

"And drawing you out."

"Not that I needed it."

"Of course not," Brad agreed. 

Was Brad humoring him? Probably. Nate narrowed his eyes.

"Could I have crawled on top of you at any time?" Brad asked out of nowhere.

Nate blinked at the shift in direction. "Wait, what?"

"Was it a love at first sight thing? On the beach, you saw me and fell madly, heroically in love?" Brad asked, mock-sincere.

" _Now_ you're fucking with me," Nate decided.

"Your powers of deduction do the Ivy League proud." Brad collected their weapons, then handed Nate his.

Nate accepted it absently. "Walt," he said, a thought occurring.

Brad quirked an eyebrow and started off through the grove, back toward their Humvees.

Nate followed automatically, mind reasoning through the scenarios. "You started touching Walt so I'd notice. Or someone would notice. And of course I'd say something about it."

Brad kept scanning the grove as they moved, prepared for any threat though his voice was mild: "Sir, I am shocked that you'd think I'd exploit the personal pain of a team member in order to get in your pants."

"You're a Marine," Nate reminded.

Brad actually smiled. "There is that; I'd do pretty much anything to get that pretty little mouth of yours wrapped around my cock." 

Absurdly, after everything, Nate flushed. "You could have just jumped me," he muttered.

"But then I wouldn't get to watch you squirm." And he'd have to expose himself to some vulnerability. Yet considering Nate was his superior, it'd be easier for Brad to...show an interest.

But then, Brad _had_ started feeling him up, just in a way that could be construed as joking; that spoke of not wanting to let it go.

Nate should let this conversation go. Here, now, he _could_.

"Sadist," Nate grumbled. 

"And yet you find it hot."

Nate didn't respond. They were close to the edge of the grove, Marines sprawled in and around Humvees just past the treeline.

Brad snorted, darkly amused. "Ray was fuckin' right." A discontented pause. "That's a realization no one should ever have. Next we're gonna find out we actually did go to war over pussy."

"Ray had an opinion on this?"

"On you. I may have to burn some of Rolling Stone's notes." He led the way out of the grove, all cocky assurance, no hint that there was anything improper about disappearing into the night with his LT.

"Censoring the media now?" Nate asked, light, keeping pace with his longer strides.

"Unless you _want_ them to print that you're gay for my cock. Which - "

"Brad!" Ray's voice cut in, brash and pointed. "Trombley keeps watching me. He says he doesn't want me puttin' the moves on Walt, but I think he just wants my cock for himself."

"I do not, you fucking faggot!" Trombley called.

"Hey, Whopper Junior, it'd be more convincing if you said so without playing with your balls," Ray shot back.

"Children, Daddy's back, so it's time to shut the fuck up like good little girls," Brad injected.

"About time. Where the fuck you been?" Ray asked.

"Getting the LT off, Ray."

Nate kept his face blank.

Ray shot a look at Nate, then got sulky. "Fine. Don't tell me. But just remember this moment when I start keeping things from you."

"Ray, don't get my hopes up. You know how I hate a fuckin' cocktease."

*** 

**Author's Note:**

> Podfic by [](http://chemm80.livejournal.com/profile)[**chemm80**](http://chemm80.livejournal.com/) can be found [here](http://chemm80.livejournal.com/142797.html).


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